


The Governess' Secret

by DK65



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe--Gothic, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 11:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7168985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DK65/pseuds/DK65
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark arrives at Casterly Rock, to teach the Lannister children. However, she soon learns a terrible secret about her father's death...<br/>These characters belong to GRRM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa Arrives at the Rock

Lady Sansa Stark got off the regular London to Lannisport train, at the Lannisport railway station. She looked at her wristwatch—the train had arrived in time at six o’clock; she hoped the transport to Casterly Rock, which Sir Kevan Lannister promised her when he interviewed her in London, would arrive soon. The porter had been kind enough to help her get her bags off the train and into the waiting room—she hoped the tip she’d given him was adequate. She gave herself a critical look in the mirror in the waiting room, as she tidied herself after her journey. She was a beautiful girl, with her auburn hair, blue eyes, sharp features and fair skin—she’d inherited her father’s height and her mother’s fullness of figure. She was dressed neatly but plainly in a dark knee-length skirt and jacket, matched with a simple white blouse with a little lace on the collar. She was twenty-one—she had graduated from university a year ago and completed her teaching diploma recently. She had been hired by Sir Kevan, on behalf of his eldest brother, Lord Tywin Lannister, the banker and media magnate, to work as a governess for his two youngest grandchildren, Myrcella and Tommen, who had lost their father, Lord Robert Baratheon, Duke of Dragonstone, in a railway accident six months ago.

She had just finished tidying up when she heard the door of the waiting room slam open. She turned around and was confronted by the sight of an extremely muscular and big-built man, over six feet tall, who stood glaring at her out of a half-burnt face. She could feel her jaw drop as she looked at him.

“Are you the governess Sir Kevan hired?” the man barked at her in a raspy voice.

“Yes, I am.“ She said, almost stammering.

“Where are your bags? Over here? Thank heavens! Well, don’t stand waiting around, girl—I’ve got things to do! Follow me.” He hefted her bags one-handed as he ushered her out of the waiting room.

She did as he asked, till they walked out of the station and up to a black Land Rover. He tossed the bags into the back—she hoped the bottle of perfume that she had packed so carefully would not break despite his callous handling of her belongings. He helped her into the passenger seat and then took the wheel. He reversed the Land Rover and drove away from the station, towards Casterly Rock. She sat quietly, staring straight ahead into the darkening sky; it was September, still warm for this time of year.

“So,” the man said, glancing her way as he drove toward the coast, “you’re the one who’ll be teaching young Tommen and Myrcella, now that the old bat has gone to nurse her mother? Eh?”

“Yes.” She said, trying to sound certain—the very sight of him had given her a shock. She had never seen a man so badly burnt—the entire right side of his face was horribly scarred. She wondered how it had happened—perhaps it was a war injury.

“Don’t talk much, do you?” the man asked her, with a chuckle.

“No, I don’t—not as a rule.” She said, trying to sound polite.

“May as well introduce myself while I’m about it. Name’s Sandor Clegane—I take care of the grounds of Casterly Rock. You must be Sansa Stark, eh?” He took one hand off the wheel and extended it to her—it was huge.

“Yes, I am.” She tried to smile at him—he was being polite and she should reciprocate like a lady—as she gave him her hand to shake. It disappeared into his paw.

“Sorry for being so gruff and all. Just remembered I had to pick you up from the station when Lord Tyrion reminded me. I was just going to take off for the pub. Just think—there you would have been, waiting hour after hour, for someone to come pick you up from the station, while I sat drinking beer, if that gargoyle hadn’t reminded me about picking up the governess.” He chuckled—evidently the thought of her waiting for transport at the station was very funny.

“Yes, I can well imagine,” she said sweetly—she would not lose her temper with him; she was certain he had a lot to do, and picking her up from the station would have been the last thing on his mind. Large estates like Casterly Rock did not run themselves; and after two world wars, the staff required to run large homes and estates just was not there. She was relieved when, after the war was over, her mother had decided to shift the family from the castle of Winterfell, which they gave to the local agricultural college, to the guest house, which was just large enough to meet their needs. She was glad her mother still had some of the staff—Gage, Poole, Mikken, Farlen, Harwin and Hullen—to run the house; Mama had seen to it the others got to work for the college. She thought father would have approved Mama’s practicality, although Arya disagreed with her, as usual. They had been well compensated, by the college and the Ministry for Coal, which had nationalised the mines the Starks had owned for generations—it helped to pay for the children’s education, as her mother told Brienne, who’d come north during the war as a land girl, and continued to stay with the Starks after the war was long over.

“Sir Kevan said most of the family was living at the Rock,” she said, trying to make conversation.

“Yes, they are—you’ll have your hands full with the children. The old bat couldn’t handle it—she was a Londoner born and bred—she was hired to care for Tommen and Myrcella only. Then Her Grace decided to stay with Papa when His Grace had a bit too much brandy and tumbled off that train in France. Good thing Colonel Selmy was awake and stopped the train—otherwise they’d have had to scrape his body off the rails with shovels.” He laughed at that; she was repelled by the thought of someone dying such a gruesome death.

“Did His Grace always drink a lot?” she asked Clegane.

“Eh? What? Drink? Oh, yes—he was fond of the bottle and the girls. Led Her Grace quite a life, I can tell you that! Never a dull moment with him around. Of course, it got worse after he lost his best friend in the Blitz in ’40—he started drinking as soon as he got out of bed. Her Grace hated that—they used to fight all the time about his drinking and his women. The two young’uns know nothing about it—he’s ten and she’s four years older. Joffrey was away at school in those days. I used to drive her around town—she was doing all sorts of war work, just to keep away from her husband and his family.”

Sansa remembered the war all too well. Father had gone to London when the Blitz was at its height, because Lord Robert Baratheon had need of him. Jon Arryn, who had been guardian to Lord Robert and her father, when they both lost their fathers in the First World War, died suddenly and Father was needed to take his place. He and his secretary, Jory Cassel, and their driver, Wyl, were found dead in the East End after an air raid. She had been a girl of twelve then, her head full of romantic notions—she had come down to earth with a thump when her father died. She and Robb and Jon had to learn to be strong and responsible, for mother and the younger children.

Mother had not given way to her grief; she had done her duty during the war, taking in the refugees from the East End, helping to nurse the wounded and keeping the experimental farm at Winterfell, the pride and glory of the Starks, running during the darkest days of the war, to provide food for the country. Uncle Edmure had been taken prisoner in Europe when his plane was shot down; her mother supported Aunt Roslin through her pregnancy. Grandfather Hoster had died soon after that, of cancer; Mother sat by him, hour after hour. Uncle Brynden, her mother’s uncle, and Uncle Benjen, her father’s younger brother, kept disappearing on mysterious missions into occupied Europe—mother remained stoic through it all.

She’d had no support from her sister, Lysa, the widow of Jon Arryn, who had taken off for Switzerland with her son, her maid and a personal physician, as soon as Jon was buried. She’d chosen to reside in a castle on a mountain and had not kept in touch with her family at all.

“You were saying I’d have my hands full with the children?” she asked the man Clegane—she’d already spoken of this with Sir Kevan; but she had to make conversation till they reached the Rock.

“Oh, yes—there’s Tommen and Myrcella; Willem, Martyn and Janei, Sir Kevan’s children; Cerenna and Myrielle, Sir Stafford’s daughters; and Joy Hill, Captain Gerion Lannister’s daughter. He’s the one missing in action. The old bat—sorry, Miss Eglantine--could not be bothered about the other children. And then she kept on about her mum who was ill. So Her Grace let her go. “

They had arrived at the Rock. Clegane helped her get off the vehicle and walked her to the front door, holding her bags in his hands. The door was opened by a gaunt, grim man, with a pockmarked and beardless face. She could not help noticing his deep-set eyes and his hollow cheeks. He was evidently the butler.

“Here, Payne,” said Clegane to the butler, “show Miss Stark to her room, will you? And take these bags—I’m off to the pub.” The butler merely glanced at him—Sandor dumped the bags at his feet, and left. The butler flicked his fingers—two footmen materialized out of nowhere to pick up the bags as Sansa prepared to follow her guide up the stairs. He silently showed her to her room and merely nodded when she thanked him and the footmen. When she asked what time dinner would be served (for Sir Kevan had informed her that the governess and the children ate with the family), the butler did not speak; he merely glanced at a footman who said, “Eight o’clock, ma’am, sharp.” She thanked them once again.

It was now six forty-five; she had enough time for a quick wash and change. She supposed they would beat a gong to call everyone for dinner. She was glad to see that someone had left a can filled with hot water in her room. She changed into a simple gray evening gown with a modest neckline, brushed out her hair and pinned it up in a simple knot. She wondered what she should do next, when she heard a knock at her door.

She opened it, to find a man four feet tall, with stunted legs, a large head covered with lank platinum-gold hair that fell over his massive forehead, a face with squashed-in features and mismatched eyes, one green and one black, gazing straight at her. He was dressed in the height of fashion, in evening clothes. She would have gaped at him in horror, if he had not stretched out his stubby-fingered hand to her in greeting:

“Good evening, Lady Sansa; I hope Clegane got to the station in time. He did? That’s excellent. I’m Tyrion Lannister--may I walk you down? I thought you might find it a little difficult to find your way around Casterly, since you’ve just arrived. It’s quite an interesting building, architecturally speaking—goes back to the early middle ages...”

He talked on in this pleasant fashion while they made their way to the drawing room, a vast space done up in crimson and gold. It must have been a very warm room in winter, Sansa thought, because of the colours, but it would have been oppressively hot in summer. He offered her a drink—Sansa chose a sherry. She sipped at it delicately, while Lord Tyrion enjoyed a whisky-and-soda and gave her chapter and verse about the history of his home.

They were sitting there, making conversation and enjoying their drinks, when an extremely good-looking but very angry young man barged into the room, almost slamming the door against the wall in his rage. He was not dressed for dinner—it was evident he had been out riding; he reeked of horse-flesh and his clothes were covered in dust. He was tall, blonde, green-eyed and sharp-featured—although Sansa was faintly repelled by his thick lips. He was almost frothing in the mouth as he screamed at them—Sansa could not help but remember a rabid dog she’d seen her father shoot as a child:

“Have you read the letter Stannis sent Pycelle? Have you? That bloody man—I’ll kill the lot of them! Him and his wife and his ugly little daughter! How dare he tell Pycelle that I’m illegitimate! How dare he! How dare he make allegations about my poor mother? Has she not suffered enough? What with Father’s drinking and his whores and his bastards! I never liked him—I hope he dies soon!”

“And good evening to you too, Joffrey!” said his uncle amiably as he got up off the chair where he’d seated himself next to Sansa. “I gather you’ve been to see Creylen—I presume Pycelle sent him a copy of the letter he received? Don’t you think matters of such delicacy should be discussed in your grandfather’s study—and not in the drawing room, just before dinner? By the by, may I introduce you to this charming young lady—Lady Sansa, my nephew, Joffrey Baratheon. I believe your father and his were dear friends.”

“Of course—Father used to speak very affectionately of Lord Robert Baratheon, Your Grace,” she said, looking at Joffrey. “I sincerely condole with you in your grief at the loss of your parent.”

“I don’t need your bloody condolences, you bloody bitch!” Joffrey almost screamed at her in a fury, as he advanced on her, his fists clenched. “If you’ve come to claim your rights as my fiancée,” he snarled at her, his spittle almost flying in her face, “I’ll see you whipped out of this house and this town.”

Sansa stared at him, speechless—she did not know what he was talking about. Just then, a tall, elegant man clad in evening dress strode into the room, grabbed Joffrey by the collar of his shirt, swung him around and slapped his face, hard. Sansa stared at them both, aghast—the man who had just entered the room and struck Joffrey looked like an older version of him, except for his thin lips, which were twisted in a sneer.

“My dear Joffrey,” he said, in a voice as cold as steel, “if you do not learn to control your temper; if you do not learn to behave when introduced to a young lady in a drawing room in your grandfather’s house; if you continue to make baseless assumptions about people when you meet them—you will have a very gory and unpleasant end indeed. Please apologize to Lady Sansa at once,” he continued, in a voice filled with the snap of a command, “leave this room, go and bathe—you stink of the stable—and come back in evening dress in fifteen minutes flat. If you don’t, you can go to bed hungry for all I care. Do you understand?”

“Yes—yes—of course, U-Uncle Jaime—my apologies, Lady Sansa, Uncle Tyrion.” And the young man fled the room like a whipped cur. Sansa could only stare after him, shocked.

Lord Tyrion cleared his throat, “Allow me, Lady Sansa, to introduce my brother Jaime. You must have heard of his career in the air force during the war?”

“Yes—yes, of course. My brother Bran is a great admirer of yours, Squadron-Leader Lannister—he plans to join the RAF when he grows up.”

Jaime turned to her and gave her a weary smile. “Thank you, Lady Sansa—I suppose you must be the young lady Uncle Kevan hired to teach the brats. They’re not a bad lot—but they do enjoy playing jokes on the unwary. Don’t be surprised to find earwigs in your spectacle case or a frog on your pillow.”

“I don’t know about the frog, sir—but I don’t wear spectacles, so I can’t imagine where they’d put the earwigs!”

Jaime was just laughing at this weak joke when in walked the most beautiful woman Sansa had ever seen—she was in a right royal temper. She was dressed in a black evening gown, simple, elegant and French, which showed off her figure admirably, and she wore a necklace and earrings of magnificent pigeon-blood rubies. Her hair was elaborately plaited and put up to resemble a coronet of gold. She made a beeline for Squadron-Leader Jaime Lannister.

“How could you speak like that to Joffrey? The poor boy’s had the shock of his life because of that letter Stannis sent Pycelle. And then,” she turned blazing green eyes in Sansa’s direction, “to find this creature in the drawing room...what in blazes did Uncle Kevan mean by hiring Ned Stark’s daughter as the governess?”

“A very good question, Cersei,” responded Jaime, amiably. “Perhaps you should have specified your requirements clearly to Uncle Kevan before you asked him to look for a governess for the children. Knowing my uncle, he would have looked for the best—I’m sure Lady Sansa’s qualifications...”

“Oh, I don’t care for that at all!” blazed his sister, who was not mollified by his conciliatory manner. “I told him to find me...”

Sansa did not find out what Lady Cersei had wanted Sir Kevan to find her, because in walked a gentleman at the very sight of whom both Squadron-Leader Lannister and his brother straightened to attention. He was a tall, bald, muscular man in his early fifties, with pale green eyes flecked with gold and silvery blonde side-whiskers framing his face from ear to jaw. He spoke icily to his daughter:

“Cersei, you shame your family with your lack of manners. Lady Sansa, welcome to Casterly Rock.” His manner to her was correct, cold and formal. She responded politely and respectfully—her father may have deplored Lord Tywin’s politics, which had led him to support any political movement, as long as it was anti-communist in nature, but she was his employee. “Thank you, Lord Tywin. Lord Tyrion was telling me all about its history.”

“Yes, it is an old house—but I hear Winterfell is older—goes back to Roman times, so they say.”

“I don’t know, my lord—father always planned to have the lower levels excavated, but the war intervened.”

Lady Cersei turned on her, her red lips smirking, and spoke to her, in a mock-sympathetic tone. “It must have been such a come-down for your family, giving the castle to an agricultural college, of all things, and having to muck about in the guest house.”

“Not really, Your Grace,” Sansa responded, calmly. “The castle was well-suited for use as a college; my family had always supported agricultural experiments, so giving it to the college seemed the right thing to do. And the guest house is just the right size for us—with staff shortages...”

Cersei turned her back to her, giving Sansa a cut direct. However, Tyrion intervened, asking Sansa a question about their library. “I hope it is still intact—I remember visiting Winterfell a long time ago; I was looking for a manuscript I needed to read for my research—I could only find it in your library. Your father was kind enough to let me use it.”

“The library is in good shape—Papa had the books packed up and stored in the crypt when France and Norway fell, before he went to London. We gave the library to Wintertown—they’re setting up a university there; the agricultural college will be affiliated to it.”

“Oh, how philanthropic of you!” Cersei cooed, in a mock-sweet tone of voice, her eyes revealing her rage. “And are you a graduate of this new university, then?”

“No, Your Grace—I went to Somerville, on a scholarship.”

Before Cersei could respond to this statement with yet another barb, three ladies in late middle age walked in, followed by a horde of children and two or three young men. Lord Tywin introduced Sansa to his sister Genna and his sisters-in-law, Darlessa and Dorna. The three ladies were responsible for the running of the house and the estate, while the men worked at building business empires, flying planes or studying and teaching history. Then Tyrion introduced her to the children, who had mobbed him instantly—it seemed that he was their favourite relative. Joffrey was the last to walk in; although he was dressed to the nines in a well-cut evening suit, there was something of the beaten dog about him. The gong for dinner sounded as he entered the room—Sansa took a surreptitious peek at her wristwatch to discover that it was indeed eight o’clock. They walked in to dinner; Sansa noticed she was seated exactly in line with the salt cellar.

She tried to make conversation with the two gentlemen seated either side of her. Captain Daven Lannister had just returned from serving in the army in Germany; he had met Robb there and got along well with him. He was engaged to one of the Frey girls, a relative of her aunt Roslin’s. They had an amusing discussion on the family Frey, which occupied them during the soup and salad course. Lancel Lannister, whom she attempted to talk to during the main course, did not seem ready or willing to respond with anything more than monosyllables. When the meal was over, she left the table with the women and the children, to leave the men to their port and cigars.

As she followed the women and the children out of the room, Lady Cersei turned to face her and said in a voice everyone could hear:

“You may as well begin your duties now, Sansa—please escort the children to their beds. I want to see them asleep in an hour, or else.” Her eyes conveyed the message clearly: or else you’ll be out on the next train...

“But Mother, you promised...” Tommen wailed, and Myrcella joined in. “You promised you’d let us sit up tonight. Tomorrow’s Saturday—we don’t have lessons on weekends.” She grabbed Sansa by one hand, and Janei grabbed the other. “I want to sit in the drawing room and have hot chocolate,” she said firmly.

Lady Genna joined in. “For shame, Cersei—the girl’s just arrived barely three hours ago. Let her have an evening of peace. Tomorrow, after breakfast,” she said firmly to Sansa, pushing her in the direction of the drawing room, “the children will sit down with you and tell you what they’ve been studying with Miss Eglantine. For now, just get to know them better.”

Sansa felt a little awkward at seeing Lady Cersei so easily outmanoeuvred by her aunt and the children—but it was obvious the children did not want to go to bed so early. She sat down with them and listened to their conversations, giving her opinion when asked for it. Of course, as Sir Kevan had warned her, they began by telling her of the various ghosts that haunted Casterly Rock—Lady Joanna being the most prominent.

“I’ve seen her,” Myrcella said in an authoritative but low voice—it was evident she did not want to be overheard by her mother.

“Where?” Janei asked, all agog.

“You know her rooms are always kept locked? Only Grandfather, Mother and Uncle Jaime are allowed inside? Well, when I was climbing Lion’s Leap—it’s that hill just opposite the Rock, Lady Sansa—I saw her. She was in a white nightgown drenched in blood and she stood at the window, looking out.”

Payne walked in just then, leading a bevy of footmen who first carried the coffee tray to Lady Cersei and her aunts and then a tray with hot chocolate milk for the children. She noticed he gave her a mug of hot chocolate as well—she had no objection, since she wanted a good night’s sleep. The gentlemen walked in and joined the ladies.

Sansa left with the children, after wishing everyone a good night. She had the children tucked into bed—Tommen shared a room with Willem and Martyn Lannister, who were twins, but not identical; Willem had sandy hair, whereas Martyn’s hair veered towards gold. The girls shared a common room—they were lying, whispering in bed, when Sansa came to tuck them in. She put off the lights after shushing them to sleep and went to her own room, which was not too far from theirs’—they were located in the nursery wing, as Tyrion had informed her earlier in the evening.

She had just got into bed and put her head on the pillow when she felt something rustle, between the pillow and its case. It seemed that someone had left a paper there. She switched on the bedside lamp, put her hand into the pillow and pulled out the paper. It was a letter, apparently addressed to her mother, bearing Robert Baratheon’s signature. Sansa opened it, to read:

My dear Catelyn,

It has been many years since we met last in 1940. Sometimes, I think I did the wrong thing—if only I had not sent for Ned to come to London, to help when Jon died, he might yet be alive. But I needed him then, as I always needed him and Jon. The two of them gave me the courage to bear the loss of my parents—I hope I gave Ned the strength to face his losses when he lost his father and Brandon. And then there was the loss of Lyanna, which wounded us both. I should have been there for you and the children, as Ned was there for me when I needed him. I can never forgive myself for that, war or no war.

There is another reason why I’m writing this letter—you must have guessed that already; you must suspect me of an ulterior motive (in any case) in getting in touch with you almost nine years after his death. Well, there are one or two. I need answers to a few questions—perhaps Ned wrote to you or called you before he died. If he did so, please tell me:

Why was he visiting the most notorious brothel in the East End accompanied by his secretary? I know it was a notorious brothel because I was a frequent visitor to it six months before he went there.  
What did he want to get fixed at Tobho Mott’s motor parts and automobile repair shop? Again, I know he went there—I had Colonel Selmy check up on his movements.  
Why was he questioning Pycelle about Jon’s stomach ailment? Did he suspect foul play?  
Why has your sister married Petyr Baelish? I thought he was carrying a torch for you—he fought a duel with Brandon because he wanted to marry you.  
If you do have the answers to these questions, please write to me at the Hotel __________ in Paris—I shall be visiting briefly after inspecting our Mediterranean fleet.

Yours,

Robert Baratheon

The letter was dated a week before his death—he wrote it before he left for France.

Sansa did not know what to believe—it was evident that Robert Baratheon suspected something about her father’s death; else he would not be asking all these questions or writing to her mother so many years after the event. She wondered if she should find an excuse to go to Lannisport and post this letter, with a covering note, to Mama. Or should she burn it instead? Catelyn, she thought, had suffered enough when Eddard died in that air raid—why should she open those wounds that had taken nine years to heal? She wondered how Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon and Jon would react—they would all want vengeance against those who had done their father to death. She did not want to post the letter—not until she was certain it was written by Robert Baratheon. Of course, she could ask her mother if he had written to her after Lord Eddard’s death—both Uncle Brynden and Uncle Benjen knew enough cops to find a handwriting expert who could compare the two notes to see if this was Robert Baratheon’s handwriting, and not a forgery calculated to sow distrust and suspicion in the minds of its readers.

She was pondering what action to take when she heard the phone in the nursery wing ring loudly. She looked at the time—it was almost eleven. She threw on a dressing gown—she wanted to make sure the children were not awakened by the sound. It rang again and again—it had stopped ringing when she reached it, somewhat out of breath, and picked it up.

Two men were talking on the phone. She recognized one of the voices—it was Jaime Lannister. He was talking angrily to the man at the other end of the line, who kept trying to interrupt him.

“Listen, Petyr, what makes you think the girl knows something? Joffrey threw that bit about Robert planning an engagement between the two of them—she hadn’t heard of it at all. Perhaps Ned did not tell his wife everything he discussed with his best friend—I’m sure he never told her who Jon Snow’s mother was.”

Sansa listened breathlessly—she knew she was eavesdropping, and eavesdroppers heard nothing but evil of themselves. But it was evident these men knew how and why her father had died—she would not put the phone down, propriety be damned.

“My dear Jaime,” the man at the other end of the line spoke, in a patient tone of voice, the sort of voice used with idiots. “I think I told you, did I not, that my hysterical little Lysa wrote to her sister—she sent her a gift of a pair of German binoculars with a note in code. I told you, did I not, that the girls used to amuse themselves making up secret languages and codes? They trusted me—I was Lysa’s age and not such a baby as Edmure. I know she wrote to her sister, accusing your family of murdering the late, great Jon Arryn. She confessed to me, the naughty girl—she said she did it to cover up her own crime. I’m certain that when Ned went to London, to aid Robert in the war effort after Jon’s death, he planned to look into Jon’s murder as well. I told you, did I not, that he was following the same trails and clues as Jon was—Stannis’ trails and clues—and he would come to the same conclusions as Jon had. I warned you that you and your sister, and your children, were in danger, unless you got rid of Ned. Now, find a way to get rid of the girl.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Petyr—if the girl disappears for no good reason, won’t her family come looking? She’s been hired as a governess by my uncle—my father and brother approve of her, as do the aunts and cousins. They don’t know anything, as yet, about us—Cersei and me. If anything happens to the girl, they will get to the bottom of it. Tyrion and my father and Uncle Kevan—they’re all relentless in their own way, and very, very unforgiving. Father, for one, questioned me even more sternly than a Scotland Yard detective when Ned and his men died. He heard I’d been in the area—did you find a way to get word to him? You better not have—I know a few things about you that would put you and keep you behind bars, here or in Switzerland. I think we should let sleeping dogs lie—the girl knows nothing. I don’t know how much Catelyn knows or suspects—but she never got the letter Robert wrote her. He gave it to Lancel to post—and Lancel read the letter and told Cersei about it. He said he destroyed it—why would he lie? He idolizes Cersei—slobbers over her, if you ask me—but he has been useful. And as for Police Commissioner Slynt—he should be happy with Harrenhal—I nearly went bust paying for it. I have no intention of talking to my father to talk to someone to get him a safe seat in the House of Commons. Making him an MP seems to be too high a price to pay—I might just turn virtuous and confess all my crimes at one go.”

Petyr evidently said something in disagreement, after which Jaime responded with:

“Listen, Petyr, you seem to be a really clever chap—you can travel under the radar and gain everyone’s confidence so easily. Why not find a way to get rid of Stannis for us—and I’ll keep quiet about your affair with Lysa? He’s writing all those insulting letters about us—someone is sure to ask questions—no smoke without fire—that sort of thing. You were bloody smart in telling us how to get rid of Ned and his secretary and driver—I don’t think I ever felt more grateful for an air raid in the East End. The bombs did a good job of hiding the bullet holes. You get rid of Stannis—and I’ll forget that Pycelle told me Jon Arryn was suffering from arsenic poisoning when he examined him. Pycelle, unlike that young fool Colemon, knows his poisons. Lysa must have been giving it to him, right? I’m glad I never agreed to wed her—it would have been me and not Jon Arryn who would have been in his grave.”

When Petyr protested loudly, Jaime responded with, “Listen, you bastard, I got rid of Jon’s valet for you—the one who was blackmailing you and Lysa with your affair and the poisoning. I got Gregor to get rid of him for you during basic training. You get rid of Stannis—and no, I will not have the girl hurt. Not by Cersei or Joffrey. She knows nothing; she’s an innocent for all her university education. And for God’s sake,” he snapped, when Petyr continued to squawk, “don’t call me at this unearthly hour and not at this number—do you realise this is the extension number? Anyone in the house can pick it up and listen in. What if Joffrey or my father were to find out what we’d done? We’d be toast, do you realise that? No; we do what I told you—I call you from the bar in the Lannisport hotel when I need to speak to you. You leave a message asking to speak to me with the bartender or with Sandor Clegane, no one else. Don’t call the house, Petyr—or I’ll land up in Switzerland, shoot your wife and son and make it look like you did it. Good night.”

Sansa heard the phone slam down simultaneously at both ends. She put the receiver down, her hand shaking. She did not think she would ever forget the conversation that she had overheard. No, she did not plan to leave—nor did she plan to ask for leave so soon after her arrival here. She knew she would get a weekend to herself once in two weeks—Sir Kevan had promised her that. Very well then; the Saturday after next, she would go to Lannisport, find a quiet place—the parlour of the local inn or the reading room of the local library—and write to her mother, enclosing Robert Baratheon’s letter in her note. Her family—the Tullys and the Starks—might have lost a lot in the war, but they would find the means to get justice. She hoped and prayed that Stannis Baratheon would stay alive till then. She would be the best governess ever, till next Saturday—she would make certain they had no complaints about her conduct. She looked into the children’s rooms, to find them sleeping soundly—she then made her way back to her own bed, only to stare at the ceiling hour after hour, unable to sleep.


	2. Sansa Visits Lannisport...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa visits Lannisport, but is horrified by what she finds on her return to the Rock...  
> These characters belong to GRRM.

Sansa planned her day off well in advance. She’d always enjoyed biking through the country—so she checked with Lady Genna, who seemed to be the one in charge, if she could borrow a bicycle to go down to Lannisport. Not only did Lady Genna show her the bicycle shed, she also encouraged her to plan biking excursions with the children. Sansa thought this might be a good idea—the boys did tend to get rambunctious if kept indoors too long. She would bike down to Lannisport after breakfast on Saturday. She’d hidden Robert Baratheon’s note to her mother carefully—one of the Cockney evacuees to Winterfell, Gendry Waters, had made her a jewel case, in which she kept her pearls, with a false bottom. Sansa was able to conceal the document in that, inserting a hair from her head inside the case, to trip up anyone who attempted to search her things. This she did on that fateful Friday night, when she lay sleepless in her bed.

Two weeks later, she took out the document from the jewel case just before she went down to breakfast and put it in her purse, along with a fountain pen filled with ink. She had enough money to buy some letter paper and stamps—she just needed a quiet place to think. She made polite conversation during breakfast—it had become second nature to her now, playing this game. She said her good-byes and went off to the bicycle shed after breakfast.

She was glad to be on her own, finally, cycling down the road on a fine autumn morning. She might have burst into song if she had not been weighed down by the conversation she had overheard. She got to Lannisport within forty-five minutes, locked her bike at the stand near the library on the high street and walked down, first to the stationer’s, where she bought some writing paper and envelopes, and then to the post office, to purchase some stamps. She took a good look into shop windows—not just to window-shop, but also to see that she was not being followed.

Then, she walked into the local library, filled out a membership card, picked up her reading tickets and found a place to sit and write her letter. When she had finished, she took the time to browse the shelves and check out some Wodehouses before she dropped her letter, stamped and addressed to her mother, into the letterbox. Then she walked into the bar of the Lannisport hotel, where she planned to lunch. As she walked into the bar-cum-restaurant, she could hear Sandor’s voice raised in anger before she saw him:

“Listen, Littlefinger, I’m not your bloody messenger boy—you want to talk to the squadron-leader, call the house. Ask for him by name. Payne doesn’t take the phone or give messages; he has underlings who do that job. They’ll tell him you called—they’ll give him your number. He said he wants you to call here and leave messages with me or the barkeep? Well, I’ve too much on my mind to remember your bloody messages! And the barkeep has better things to do as well!”

She heard the phone being slammed down as he strode out of the telephone booth and almost walked into her.

“Watch where you’re going, Mr. Clegane,” she said, in her primmest, most governess-like manner. “Who’ve you been yelling at so loudly?” she asked, as he helped her to a seat at a table near the back.

“Friend of the family,” he mumbled, not looking at her. “Friend of your family, as a matter of fact,” he said, in a louder voice.

“A friend of my family—do I know him?” she asked, surprised. The people she knew had been the neighbours and friends of her parents, and those of her mother’s family at Riverrun. She could recall no one else.

“Chap called Petyr Baelish—know him?” he asked her, looking at her curiously.

“Should I?” she asked, with some surprise.

“He married your aunt about a year ago. They live in Switzerland.”

“My aunt did not get in touch with any of her family after she moved there when her husband died.” She said quietly. “She could have been there to comfort my mother, my grandfather, Aunt Roslin, all of us... but she chose to stay away. My mother wrote to her but received no replies.”

“Maybe she didn’t want your mother to know she was carrying on with Baelish—he fought a duel over her years ago.”

“Mr. Clegane, where do you hear these stories? I never heard anything about a duel—I’m sure my mother would have told me all about it.”

“Or maybe she wouldn’t. I heard the story from Her Grace—she said your mum was engaged to your father’s older brother—you have heard that one, then?—who died in a riding accident. But before he died, he fought a duel for your mother’s hand in marriage with this Baelish bloke. He was desperate to wed her, it appears, but he lost the duel. And then your uncle died when his horse threw him in a steeplechase. And your parents got married. She was quite jealous of your mum—imagine Catelyn Tully having a duel fought over her, and her a mere redhead! She thinks duels should only be fought over her, if you ask me...”

“Hush,” she said suddenly, for she had spotted Tyrion Lannister waddling into the bar. He chose to walk up to their table, indicating to the waiter that he should drag a chair up to it.

“Afternoon, Lady Sansa—hope you like our little watering hole. Any messages, Clegane?”

“Only from Switzerland—the usual party.”

“Ah—make sure he rings up the house—I’ve got the line tapped.”

“No good unless you have the police on your side.”

“Oh, you of little faith! Police Commissioner Slynt is being questioned with regard to his purchase of Harrenhal—it appears Mockingbird Properties paid the larger part of the purchase price Lady Tully set on it. Slynt only paid a tenth of the amount.”

“Aren’t Mockingbird Properties planning to build council houses there? That’s what Aunt Roslin said they wanted to do.” Sansa could not help breaking into the conversation.

“So that’s how they sold it to her! No, dear girl, the property is being used by Police Commissioner Slynt of the Met as his family home. He wants to become an MP too, it appears. He tries to appeal to my papa on the law and order bandwagon—father, who’s quite a snob, does not like him because he’s not aristocratic enough, even though he does not approve of your Uncle Edmure’s socialist politics. Anyway, he’s being questioned on charges of corruption and concealing evidence—we’ve got a Jacklyn Bywaters as commissioner now. Much more interested in doing his job than in feathering his own nest, I should say.”

Sansa looked dubiously at both men--she had planned to lunch alone, but now that she’d literally run into Sandor Clegane and Lord Tyrion, it would have looked suspicious if she tried to get away. It appeared that Lord Tyrion had his own reasons for distrusting Police Commissioner Slynt. She’d heard what Jaime had told Petyr—to send his messages through Clegane, if he wanted to call. Now she saw Clegane might well have become suspicious enough to confide in the younger Lannister.

“So if he is being questioned on those charges, what happens to Harrenhal? Who owns it?” she asked.

“Mockingbird, of course!“ exclaimed Sandor Clegane, nettled by her obtuseness, as he exchanged an exasperated glance with Tyrion Lannister.

“And who owns Mockingbird? It sounds like a very odd name for a real estate company.” She said.

“Out of the mouths of babes!” said Lord Tyrion, raising a glass of red wine to salute her. “Lady Sansa, you have asked a million-dollar question, as our cousins across the pond will tell you.”

Sansa did not know what to make of this comment—she ate her lunch quietly while the two men discussed matters relating to the upkeep of the Rock. It soon became evident to her that Lord Tyrion managed the estate for his father, not Squadron-Leader Lannister, the elder son. It was also evident that the groundsman and his lordship shared a good working relationship.

She cycled back to the Rock after lunch—his lordship and Mr. Clegane planned to spend the night in town. She got back to the Rock, put the bicycle in the shed, napped a little and read the Wodehouses she had borrowed for a fortnight. When she came down for dinner, she was surprised to see Sir Kevan there; she greeted him politely and answered his questions about her stay at the Rock civilly. No one had mentioned he’d be at the Rock this weekend, but he must come home from London frequently to meet his young children and his wife.

That evening, she put the children to bed and went in to her own room, to sit and read a little longer. Wodehouse’s world of Bertie Wooster, his valet-cum-butler Jeeves and his friends with their impossible romantic complications had always made her smile; she needed to laugh, to remember that not all the world was filled with complications and plots, especially after two weeks where she felt she’d had a terrible secret to conceal, a secret not her own.

She decided to take a quick look in the children’s room before she went to bed. The boys were fast asleep, although one of the twins had thrown his covers off. She tucked him in and went in to look in on the girls. That was when she found young Joy Hill, Captain Lannister’s daughter, lying sobbing into her pillow. She was crying quietly, so that she did not wake the others.

Sansa immediately scooped the little girl up—she was no more than ten, a wispy little thing--wrapped her in her dressing gown and took her to her room. There she made the girl wash her face and gave her a drink of water. She held the girl in her arms and rocked her gently, till Joy stopped crying. Then she asked Joy, quietly and gently, what had happened to make her cry so. Joy told her, gulping down her tears:

“I was alone in the schoolroom when he walked in and closed the door. He said when Uncle Tywin and Jaime and Tyrion died, he’d be head of the family—the Lannister of Casterly Rock. He’d have the Rock and the dukedom and Storm’s End—he’d have everything and everyone would have to do as he said. He said we’d have to obey him, all of us, even me. He said he’d marry someone rich and powerful—the daughter of an American millionaire, not a Scottish farmer’s daughter, like his father wanted him to wed. He said he’d keep me as his mistress—if I refused and ran away, he’d get men who’d hunt me out wherever I was hiding and give me a good raping. When I complained to his mother, she said I was lying—everyone was lying about Joffrey. She said I was a liar and she’d see to it I would be sent away from the Rock, as soon as possible. Oh, what should I do? Where will I go?”

Sansa was suddenly, blazingly angry. Here was this poor helpless girl, an orphan, whose father had simply disappeared over the Pacific—her mother had died, giving birth to her (Sir Kevan and the ladies had told her Joy’s history, which had helped her understand the child better) and she was being abused by those of her own blood.

“You will go nowhere,” she said firmly. “The Rock is your home—you are a Lannister by blood. You will stay right here and you will stay safe. Tomorrow, we will speak to Lord Tywin and Sir Kevan; and to all your cousins. I will not have a student of mine bullied by a coward. Now, go to sleep, right here, with me—I’ll make sure you have no more nightmares.” Thus reassured, Joy soon fell asleep, although Sansa lay awake for some time, planning how to tell the tale to each person concerned with Joy’s welfare. She was a little concerned at Tyrion’s absence—she had somehow felt most comfortable talking to him at lunch. She did not think he knew of his brother’s role in her father’s murder; it appeared as if he was apprehensive of his brother’s friendship with Petyr Baelish.

The next morning, she took Joy with her after church; they spoke to Sir Kevan. Joy told her uncle what she had already told Sansa—how Joffrey had threatened her and how Cersei had refused to reprimand him when Joy had complained to her. Sir Kevan listened quietly as Joy spoke; he looked at her kindly and said, “Joy, I want you to know one thing and know it well—we are your family and we will stand by you. All of us loved your papa and we miss him as much as you do. And we will never let you get hurt. I’m glad you listened to Lady Sansa and came to tell me of Joffrey’s behaviour—I will speak to your uncle Tywin about it. He will know what to do.”

The next Sansa heard about it was in the evening, when she came back to the Rock after a stroll in the grounds. She had to admit that Sandor Clegane did an excellent job of keeping the grounds in order—both he and Lord Tyrion were to be congratulated. She had just walked in, taken off her outdoor things and hung them up when the footman, Kettleblack, told her Lady Cersei had been demanding to speak to her all afternoon.

“She’s in her sitting-room and in a rare temper, I can tell you that. You’d better go up to her on the double, or else,” the man said to her with a smirk.

“If you will be kind enough to guide me there, Kettleblack—I’ll speak with Her Grace directly.” Sansa responded calmly.

When Sansa walked in, she saw Cersei pacing the room angrily.

“Your Grace wished to speak to me?” she asked calmly.

Cersei turned around—she had her back to the door and had not seen Sansa walk in. “Indeed I did, Lady Sansa. How dare you, you insolent girl—how dare you encourage that whelp to tell lies about my son to my father and my uncle! How dare you! But I should not be surprised—you are your father’s daughter. He did everything possible to ruin my marriage—he could never forgive me for taking his sister’s place as Robert’s wife—not that Robert was much of a catch, with his drunkenness and skirt-chasing! And now you—you—are making it impossible for my poor Joffrey to live here with any dignity.”

“Your Grace—Joy is telling the truth. If you had seen her crying into her pillow so helplessly last night, you would have ...”

“Oh, so you were taken in by her tears, were you? She’s nothing but a bastard—my uncle didn’t care to wed her mother, who was no more than some village girl he took for a spin on his plane. No more than that! He should have left her in an orphanage or given her up for adoption. But to bring her here—to my father’s home—to expect my father to provide for her, as he does for his children and his grandchildren, born within the bonds of matrimony—that is too much to bear! I will not have her carrying tales of my Joffrey to my father, to poison his mind against my son.”

“In that case, ma’am, may I suggest that you keep His Grace close to you at all times? That way, no one would have occasion or reason to complain of his behaviour. His first duty should be to you, and to no one else.”

Cersei stared at her, incredulous. “Do you expect me to keep my son tied to my apron-strings?” she exclaimed, angrily.

“No, I don’t, ma’am—I expect him to stay with you of his own accord.”

Cersei glared at her. “Why should I take the advice of a Stark? Your father did everything possible to ruin my marriage to Robert—he was always there, with his solemn face, reminding him of the girl he should have married. He was there at my wedding—he was Robert’s best man, not Renly, not Stannis, not Jaime...not Jon Arryn...no one but Ned Stark would do. No wonder my marriage was miserable—your father was the cause of my misery.” Her voice trembled with rage, not tears—Cersei was not made for them.

Sansa did not know what to say. “My father would have considered it his duty to stand by his oldest friend at his wedding,” she said at last. “I am certain, ma’am, that he did not intend his presence there to bring back memories of my aunt. He often told us it did no good to dwell on the past, on what might have been—I am sure he would have said the same to his friend...”

“Oh, indeed,” Cersei exclaimed, getting increasingly angry. “God alone knows why Uncle Kevan chose to inflict you on this household,” she almost spat out the words. “I told him to hire someone who would obey me—and instead, he hires you!”

“Perhaps you should lay your complaints regarding my conduct before Sir Kevan, ma’am,” Sansa said, politely. “If both of you agree that I have exceeded my authority, then perhaps you may both agree to look elsewhere for someone who would suit you better.”

She had just finished speaking, and she could see Cersei itching to respond, when both Jaime and Tyrion walked in, looking upset and angry.

“Cersei, why on earth has Joffrey insulted Joy? And why did you cover up for him?” Jaime demanded, sounding incredulous.

“Joffrey said nothing to Joy—she’s lying,” Cersei insisted. She glared at Sansa. “This creature has trained her well—she’s a Stark, after all.”

“I doubt Joy would lie about something so serious,” said Tyrion sombrely. “She is a very truthful child. Joffrey should not have spoken thus to her—she is all alone, but for us. She is your cousin—he should at least respect that.”

“She is a bastard who has insinuated her way into this household,” Cersei snapped angrily. “I do not know why father allows her to stay here—she should be sent away to a boarding school. She could learn some sort of trade—she need never come back here.”

“Cersei—for heaven’s sake!” Jaime exclaimed, horrified. “She is a child, alone in this world, but for us. If Uncle Gerion and her mother had lived, they might well have married, but since both are dead, it is our duty to care for her. If Joffrey did make that ugly suggestion to Joy, she was quite right to tell Lady Sansa about it, and inform father and Uncle Kevan too! You should have taught him better, my dear sister. That will be all, Lady Sansa, Tyrion.” Saying which, he dismissed both of them.

As Sansa and Tyrion walked out of Cersei’s sitting room, she could not help but look at him. He was frowning in concentration. Suddenly, he turned to her and said, “Lady Sansa, I need to speak to you in private. Please come here.” He led her into his own sitting room, which seemed to be filled with books, in shelves and on the tops of tables. He sat her down and then looked hard at her, out of his mismatched eyes. Then he spoke:

“I don’t know why Uncle Kevan hired you—oh, yes, I can see you’re an excellent teacher, much better than poor Miss Eglantine, who was always so deferential to Cersei. But you have stirred up a hornet’s nest, you know, with your arrival here—without meaning to do so, of course!”

Sansa looked back at him, trying to remain calm. She had wanted this job, when Sir Kevan interviewed her three weeks ago, because he’d told her it would be for a year, at most—he and his brother had planned to send the Lannister children, including Joy, off to school this year. However, the Duke of Dragonstone’s death had derailed their plans; Tommen and Myrcella had come to the Rock, to live with their middle-aged governess. He said it was likely his niece planned to live in her father’s home with her younger children, leaving her son, the young Duke, to manage their London home and the properties he’d inherited from his father. They planned to give all the children a year to prepare to enter school—Cersei’s two young ones, he felt, would also need time to grieve the loss of a father. She had accepted the job on those terms—she’d planned to return home to Winterfell, after completing her diploma; work at Miss Mordane’s, where she and Arya had studied; meet someone nice, get married, have children and teach. However, the thought of returning home to Winterfell after her studies stifled her—she felt she had seen too little of the world. She had enjoyed her years in the university—she had been a sociable person; the heart and soul of dramatic societies, glee clubs and bicycling groups, even as she excelled at academics. She knew she would be welcomed home at any time; but first, she felt she needed to prove herself in her profession. She had held on to this resolve despite the unwelcoming response from both Joffrey and Cersei, and despite learning Jaime’s secret.

She asked Tyrion quietly, “Lord Tyrion, do you think I should leave if my presence here disturbs Her Grace to such an extent?”

He blinked, “By no means, my dear—Cersei has had too many people defer to her for far too long. I’m glad you stood up to her for Joy’s sake. And as I said, I think your being here is good for the children—they need someone young, lively and well-informed to answer their questions. I have too much to do managing the estate to do so.”

She tried again, “But...my presence here appears to inflame His Grace your nephew as well as your sister.”

“Ah, yes—Joffrey. My sister believes he did not speak to Joy disrespectfully—and she was enraged with Jaime chastising him for being rude to you, if I recall.”

She remained silent—she did not want to put words into his mouth, but she could not help wondering...

“Is Joffrey telling her the truth about what he says and does?” he wondered aloud. “Or does she know the truth about his behaviour and just does not care?”

That evening, she could not help but notice how angrily Joffrey Baratheon glared at her from across the room. She ignored him as much as she could—luckily, she did not sit next to him at any meal. However, the response from the younger children, especially Tommen and Myrcella was very different.

“Joffrey can be a bully,” Myrcella whispered to her, as Sansa tucked her up that night. It seemed that they all knew Joffrey had been given a talking-to by Lord Tywin and Sir Kevan—she did not know if they knew what he had said and to whom. She was not about to ask or tell. She simply pressed a kiss to Myrcella’s forehead, wished her a good night and sweet dreams, told the girls not to talk all night and try to get some sleep and went to her own room.

What she saw there made her stop short in horror. She’d stepped out of her room for dinner, leaving everything in its place—when she came back, two hours later, it was to find her bed sheets slashed, her night dress and dressing gown torn to ribbons, a bottle of perfume smashed to smithereens, the library books she’d borrowed torn beyond repair... She had no wish to cover up something like this, so she rang the bell and kept ringing till someone came.

The two housemaids who managed the nursery wing came up to see what was amiss. When they saw the state of her room, they were shocked.

“Who did this, ma’am, if I may ask?”

“I don’t know, Marei; I just came to my room after putting the children to bed for the night. This is what I saw and I rang the bell. I can’t imagine who would do this.”

The other housemaid looked at her shrewdly, “If you ask me, ma’am, someone does not have to do something themselves if they can get others to do their dirty work. When Their Graces came to stay at the Rock, they brought quite a few men with them. We were glad of it at that time, but the fellows do only what they’re told to do by Lady Cersei or Lord Joffrey—they listen to no one else. Trant and Moore were nowhere near the kitchen or the dining room; they might have done this.”

Sansa could only stare at the women who were cleaning up her room as fast as they could. She heard footsteps outside the door; she opened it to find Lord Tyrion standing there. He walked in, took one look at the shambles, told one of the women, “Get me Pod, Jonelle, at once,” and stood there, with his hands on his hips till Pod arrived.

“Which of the footmen were in the butler’s pantry tonight, Pod?” he asked his valet.

Pod, who was an extremely shy young man, gaped at Sansa, gulped and recited a list of names. Tyrion nodded his head, as if satisfied—Sansa had also grown to recognize the maids and footmen she met as she went around the house; she knew the footmen who had been waiting upon them at the dining table. The two men Jonelle had named were not in the butler’s pantry or waiting at table—they had been here, trashing her room.

Tyrion stood there, looking around her room, as if he was making an inventory. Then he turned to her. “I plan to have it out with my uncle once and for all. I will not have you tethered here, as a lure of some sort, for my nephew or sister to attack. He’s in the study now, confabulating with my father. Let’s talk to him.”

Sansa could only nod and gulp—she was still in shock. She gave him her hand and let him walk her down to his father’s study. She did not have sufficient presence of mind to wonder if Lord Tywin would be pleased at her intrusion.

Tyrion knocked at the door; when asked to enter, he walked in, leading her by the hand. Lord Tywin and Sir Kevan were seated there, enjoying a brandy and soda; the two men looked relaxed and calm. Sansa even noticed a slight smile on Lord Tywin’s lips, which was replaced by his habitual stony expression as he looked at his son, demanding an answer for their intrusion.

“Someone has deliberately and maliciously destroyed property belonging to and being used by Lady Sansa,” Tyrion began, and then launched into a description of what he had seen in her room. He told them what he had learned from Pod; recalled the names of the men who had waited on them at table and then gave them the names of the men he suspected of having done the damage.

“Joffrey’s men,” Sir Kevan sighed, “Of course, they were not seen anywhere near your room?” he asked Sansa.

“I don’t know, Sir Kevan,” she replied, with a small gasp. “I walked into my room after tucking the children in, switched on the light and saw the damage. That’s when I rang the bell for Marei and Jonelle.”

“We’ll have to question the servants, of course,” Tyrion said. “We cannot have someone staying at the Rock terrorised by vandals. Joffrey and Cersei,” he said, looking keenly at his father and uncle, “appear to have taken an immediate and inexplicable dislike to Lady Sansa. I noticed that, two weeks ago, upon her arrival. Joffrey was extremely rude to her—when Jaime chastised him and sent him to his room to change, Cersei arrived to protest his ill-treatment of Joffrey and got rude with Lady Sansa—I think you witnessed this, father. What I’m getting at,” he said, noticing a look of impatience directed at him by his father, “is this—why are you using Lady Sansa’s presence here as a lure to draw these two out?”

Sir Kevan gave him a look of surprise. “I had no idea Lady Sansa’s presence here would lead Joffrey and Cersei to misbehave with her—Robert had spoken rather fondly of bringing his son and Ned’s daughter together; I thought it was an excellent opportunity—her arrival here as a governess—for the two young people to meet. I thought Joffrey would be glad to meet such a charming, well-brought up and well-educated young woman; I’m sure he’s met several beautiful debutantes in London but he hasn’t proposed to any, has he?”

Tyrion gave him an exasperated look; Sansa was afraid she would begin to laugh hysterically, until Lord Tywin handed her a glass with some brandy in it. “Drink this—it’s medicinal,” he ordered her. As she sipped at it, he asked Tyrion, “What do you suggest we do, Tyrion? If Joffrey or Cersei have ordered someone to destroy Lady Sansa’s belongings, do you think they might well order an attack on her next? Neither one of them will confess to arranging this attack, just as Joffrey refused to acknowledge his misbehaviour with Joy, and Cersei refused to acknowledge Joy’s complaint regarding his misbehaviour. “

“I would advise you to send her home, father; she’s been an excellent influence on the children, better than poor Miss Eglantine, who lived in fear of Cersei’s temper; I think we need to keep her safe. As for Joffrey—I think you need a good psychiatrist. The boy can barely control himself when he is angry. If Jaime had not walked in that day and stopped him, I’m sure he would have attacked both of us.” Tyrion spoke reluctantly. “For Cersei too—I think she needs to talk to someone. Otherwise, she’ll let Joffrey get away with murder. For the children—I think it’s time they went to school, Tommen and Myrcella too. As for the men Joffrey brought with him from London, I suggest we let them go—Trant, Moore, Greenfield and Blount especially. Swann and Oakheart are still useful; perhaps we can keep Kettleblack on, although he’s a tad too insolent for my taste.”

His father was frowning at him. “Send Joffrey to a psychiatrist? Won’t that cause talk?”

“Better to have gossip now—we can always say it’s because he was suffering so much after his father’s sudden death. Otherwise, we’ll have newspaper headlines to deal with, if we let this fester.” Tyrion sounded grim. Lord Tywin nodded his head, albeit reluctantly.

“I suppose Cersei will have to see someone too,” he said sadly. He’d loved his two oldest children—no one could blame him; they were so beautiful and perfect. It had taken him time to grow accustomed to Tyrion; he had been horrified when his wife had brought forth a dwarf baby. Luckily, Joanna had survived the birth—she had died in the flu epidemic of 1919. He had been grief-stricken then; but so many had been bereaved in those terrible days. He’d been lucky to have his brothers and sister to support him through his grief—he had relied on them to get him through that time. They had all been good to the children—even surly Tygett, who seldom had a kind word to say of anyone, was fond of Tyrion. And then Tygett, that fool, had to get himself killed covering the Spanish Civil War. Darlessa had been devastated. Thank heaven Tyrek was doing so well in Hong Kong—he’d even met an heiress there, an American girl, Ermesande Hayford. He’d written a few days ago, talking of marrying her...they would have a big wedding at the Rock. He often wondered why Jaime had never married, in all these years. Of course, there was little likelihood of Tyrion ever marrying—he had never heard of a woman of good family marrying a dwarf. It grieved him sometimes that Cersei’s children would be all the grandchildren he would be likely to have—Jaime did not wish to marry, for his own goddamned reasons; and Tyrion would never marry because no woman in her right mind would have him.

Sansa listened, feeling a little let down—she’d wanted to see the world, and her dreams were ending here, in such a mundane manner. But if she stayed, she reminded herself, she could well be the one left torn and bleeding in her room. She knew she was not as strong as Robb or Jon, who faced ex-Nazis and communist collaborators and criminals without the blink of an eyelid, but she could keep her cool under fire. She put her glass down and listened as Tyrion and Lord Tywin helped plan her journey home.

The next day, a Monday, the children were told they were to visit Crakehall’s, where Uncle Jaime had studied. The boys were excited—they were finally going to see a school, where older boys grew up to learn how to fly planes and shoot guns and... The girls were visiting The Crag, a school run by Mrs. Sybelle Westerling and her daughter Elenya. Her husband, Gawen, had worked for Lord Tywin’s newspaper business—he’d died while covering the war. Lady Cersei was not too pleased that her daughter was not to be educated by a governess, as she had been, but was to go to a school, where, as she told her family at large, “she’ll associate with brats from god-knows-where and learn god-knows-what.”

“She’ll probably learn nursing, “ said Daven Lannister brightly, which earned him a disdainful snort from Cersei, who walked away to prepare for the day. “Jeyne Westerling’s a nurse—I met her out in Germany when Robb injured himself playing football. Put his shoulder out or something. We thought he’d need an operation—she just pushed the shoulder back in. I’m sure he must have been in pain, but he didn’t howl at all. Next thing I know, he’s taking her out to the movies and making plans to tell his mama he’s met someone suitable.” He confided to Sansa, in a low voice.

“I don’t suppose he thought to tell me,” said Sansa, trying not to cry—Joffrey and Cersei had been horrible to her, and Jaime had probably killed her father, but she’d grown fond of the rest of the Lannister family. She would really miss the children, whom she’d grown to love.

“No, he didn’t—he thought you’d probably shout the house down for joy. But he will be home for Christmas, won’t he, with his fiancée? And I suppose I shall visit Riverrun, if I go to the Twins to see my girl? I hope to see you there, Lady Sansa,” and Daven grinned at her out of his sandy beard.”You must come to my wedding,” he said suddenly. “I’ll take quite a few people with me—Walder Frey will expect a crowd. Tyrion will come—I’ll make him.” He said, giving Tyrion a stern look. “You don’t have to dance, but you can meet every one.”

“Yes, of course,” said Tyrion absent-mindedly. He would drop Sansa off at the Lannisport station, while Cersei went with the aunts and the girls in the crimson Rolls to The Crag and Joffrey went with Jaime and the boys to Crakehall’s in Jaime’s white Jaguar. Tyrion had a gold Aston-Martin, which his man Bronn drove skilfully. Sansa had sat up almost all night packing her bags as she wiped away her tears—Bronn had crept up to her room, before she went down for breakfast, and taken the bags down to the car. They would send her mother a telegram to expect her as soon as she got her ticket. Tyrion would wait at the station till her train to the North left—he wanted to be sure she got away safely. She was truly touched by his concern for her welfare. She’d met many men who were handsomer, taller and manlier in appearance—she’d never met someone as kind as him. His father and Uncle Kevan would speak to the four men in Joffrey’s entourage whom they would ask to leave their employment. Of course, they would be adequately compensated, as would the library in Lannisport. After all, the Lannisters paid their debts.

Sansa sat in the waiting room with Tyrion; her train would arrive in a few moments. Pod and Bronn were on the platform, to ensure that none of Joffrey’s people were about. She did not know how to thank him for taking such good care of her. Just then, Bronn walked in and said, “The train’s arrived—none of Joffrey’s fellows is about. Here’s your ticket, Lady Sansa—I got it from Lannisport to Castle Black. They say Winterfell is one of the stations on the route?”

“Yes, it is, Mr. Bronn—thank you so much,” Sansa said, with a small smile. He grinned at her and grabbed her bags, walking out of the room to the train. She turned to Tyrion, “I hope we can keep in touch,” she said, taking his hand in her own. “I really appreciate your looking out for me like this—I have really grown very fond of the children.” Her voice wobbled a bit, but she steadied it. “Please write to me and let me know how they get on. And do take care, Lord Tyrion.” She gulped down a sob and walked out.

Tyrion sat there, staring after her, a strange expression on his face. He’d never been close to any woman in his life, except for one girl, some twenty years ago. He’d been a boy of thirteen then—she’d come to Casterly Rock, to work as a housemaid. Her father was a farmer—her name was Tysha. They had become friends; in fact she was his only friend. He had never been sent to school; his father had hated the thought of a Lannister being bullied. He’d been tutored at home by Mr. Creylen, who’d been very good at his job. So Tysha was the first person, other than his family, whom he got to know well. She’d been at Casterly Rock at least four years before they became lovers. This was just before he left for university. He’d hoped they could marry after he completed his studies and got a job. However, when he came home for the vacations, it was to find her gone from the Rock. When he visited her home, he learnt she had met a young man, a sailor in Lannisport, whom she married—this happened soon after he left home. He was shattered by her desertion. He’d completed his degree, worked for military intelligence during the war and then come back home, to help his father run the business. He’d hoped for something exciting ... something in finance or the newspaper business. But his father had insisted that he stay at the Rock and help manage it, which he had done diligently. He did not think the Rock was better managed in its history.

And now, here was Sansa Stark, beautiful, intelligent, fragrant...just right for him, had he been a different man, or so he thought. He refused to believe she could take an interest in him—they had barely been acquainted two weeks. He would not deny he had tried to keep her out of harm’s way, but then, he had done it also keep his family’s name out of the gossip sheets. He did not know how to take her offer—he could write to her and let her know how the children were getting on. Yes, he could do that—he could hope just a little.

When he got back home, Peckledon, Jaime’s man, told him that most of the footmen His Grace had brought with him (Trant, Blount, Moore and Greenfield) had been let go; only Swann, Oakheart and Kettleblack were staying. Although Jaime looked relieved when he heard this on his return from Crakehall, Joffrey and Cersei were far from pleased. However, they made it obvious they were glad Lady Sansa had left.

That night, Tyrion was woken when the house phone rang loudly all over the Rock. He’d had extensions to the original number put in soon after the war; although his father hated using the phone, he hated it even more if someone knew of his dislike of it and twitted him about his age. He jumped out of bed and picked up the phone as soon as it stopped ringing—he was not surprised to hear Jaime talking to Petyr Baelish, assuring him that he had not told Sandor to refuse to take his messages.

“I’ll have to see what the problem is—I’ll talk to Sandor myself.” Jaime said, sounding grim. “If he won’t listen to me, I’ll get Gregor in to explain things to him.”

“You’d better,” Petyr said, in an ice-cold voice. “Do you know Slynt’s being investigated for corruption? His purchase of Harrenhal is under the microscope. And if they start digging deep into Harrenhal, guess whom they come up against? You and me, my dear fellow. Then they’ll start digging into us, and all the stories about how Jon Arryn and Ned Stark died will be cross-examined. Everyone believes Arryn died of a stomach infection and Ned Stark and his men died in the air raid. What if they decide to dig up Arryn’s body and check up on your movements, Jaime-boy? What then?”

“Don’t you dare call me Jaime-boy, you bloody crook!” Jaime snarled. “There’s nothing I can do about Slynt.”

“Oh yes, there is!” snapped Petyr. “I’m sure your father must be sick and tired of caring for Cersei’s and your misbegotten brats. He’ll have quite a time of it looking after Joffrey—I heard what the boy did to Sansa’s room when she told on him to Sir Kevan. I have my sources of information, Lannister—I do keep close tabs on you. Get your father to do some arm-twisting and prevent people from leaning on Slynt; otherwise I will come clean about your relationship with Cersei. And when I do, which I don’t want to, your goose will be cooked—yours and hers. The children will be shunned. You won’t find a quiet spot on the face of this earth to lay your head.”

“What if I was to tell the truth about you, Littlefinger? What if I was to reveal that you and Lysa, your dear wife, poisoned Jon Arryn? What if I was to reveal my suspicions that the two of you might well be poisoning his son, so that the boy remains under her thumb and yours? If he’d gone to Dragonstone, Lysa would have been parted from him. She didn’t want that, did she?”

“Understand something, Lannister,” Petyr Baelish hissed. “If you talk about Jon Arryn’s death, I will talk about Ned Stark and his men—you were there, to attack him, in the East End. You were given leave, were you not, to come to London? And then you went back to your airfield, just as suddenly. The police are not as stupid as you think. They can put two and two together—and put a noose around your neck. And who will be there to protect Cersei and your little cubs, I wonder?”

Tyrion heard the phone slam down hard; he heard Petyr Baelish laugh as he put the phone down in Switzerland. Tyrion put the phone down almost gently—he wondered who was spying for Baelish in Casterly Rock. Which of Joffrey’s henchmen was it? He knew no one from around Casterly Rock or Lannisport would spy on his family—too many of them had received Lannister largesse in times of need to risk offending the givers. So it had to be Swann, Oakheart or Kettleblack—he was certain it could not be the first two, who had worked for Cersei and her husband for years. Kettleblack had been hired just after the war began—Tyrion wondered why a man in good health would choose domestic work over a more exciting life in the army. He reminded himself to get the tapes from the basement and speak to Uncle Kevan—his uncle would be able to talk to father, discuss what they must do to protect the family name that would be besmirched if Jaime and Cersei were embroiled in a scandal or a crime. And he must find a way to protect Sandor from Gregor’s attack—although he wondered now if he might not be protecting Gregor from his younger brother’s fury.

When they were boys—Sandor aged six and Gregor, a hulking twelve-year-old—Sandor had the temerity to play with a toy soldier that belonged to Gregor. The older boy had taken the younger by the scruff of his neck and held the right side of his face to a brazier filled with hot coals—it had taken their father and three of his men to tear him off Sandor’s back. The father had been distraught—he could not bear the thought of a child of his in prison. So young Gregor had been sent to coal mines the family owned in Wales, where he had learned to box, and then he’d gone into the army. Sandor had also served in the army, but whereas Gregor had moved up in the ranks from a non-commissioned officer to a sergeant, Sandor had remained a private soldier, refusing promotions when these were offered. Tyrion knew he had little respect for authority, but he had served the Lannisters well and deserved their protection. It was very unlike Jaime to threaten Sandor with Gregor—but then, he would never have believed his brother capable of murder, if he had not overheard these conversations with Petyr Baelish. He wondered how his father would react to the revelation that both Cersei and Jaime would be prosecuted for murder. Would he try to protect his children by destroying evidence or allow the case to proceed? Should he share the information he had gathered with his uncle or send it to Police Commissioner Bywaters?


	3. Tyrion Takes Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion has learnt much and more from a conversation he overheard after Sansa left...so he decides to act...  
> These characters belong to GRRM.

Tyrion spent a sleepless night—but he was certain, when he awoke the next morning, that he could take no chances. He did not want the two Cleganes killing each other, after being incited to do so by a Lannister. Just imagine if that got into the papers—how father would fume, if an ice-cold man like father could fume. Finally, he hit upon a plan—he would send Sandor to London with the tapes for Jacklyn Bywaters, hidden in a sack of bulbs. The gardener at the Red House, the Duke of Dragonstone’s London residence, had said he was out of a special batch of tulip bulbs. Would Lord Tyrion send some, if it was not too much trouble?

He acted fast, now that he had hit upon a plan. Jaime had spoken last night (before Petyr Baelish called) of going across to Ashemark, Addam Marbrand’s place, to take a look at a mare. Tyrion hoped he would stick to his plan—he wanted to get Sandor out of the Rock and away while Jaime’s attention was distracted. He sent his man, Podrick Payne, to reconnoitre—Pod came back to tell him that Jaime had already left for Ashemark; he would breakfast with the Marbrands. After he had dressed, he told Pod to go to the conservatory and tell Clegane to get a special batch of tulip bulbs ready in a sack—and to wait for him there. He had a quick breakfast, and then ran down to the basement, as fast as his legs would permit him, where the recording equipment had been set up. He picked up the tapes, wrapping them in their packaging, and went to the conservatory—he could feel the cramps in his legs, and it was just the beginning of the day. He found Clegane sitting on a stool, drinking a cup of tea and grimacing—Clegane was not fond of tea.

“Ah, Clegane,” he said with a gasp, and sat down rather abruptly on an up-ended bucket.

“Have you been running around the Rock all this morning, my lord?” asked Clegane, with a sardonic twitch of his lips.

“Yes, I have—and with good reason. I want you to go to London, Clegane, with a batch of bulbs for the gardener at the Red House. While you’re there, I want you to give these tapes,” thrusting the tapes wrapped in their packaging at Clegane, “to Jacklyn Bywaters at Scotland Yard. I think I will write the man a note,” he was speaking aloud to himself, “I’m sure you’d do well as a policeman.”

“Why do you want to send me away from the Rock, my lord, if I may ask?” demanded Clegane, sounding a little mutinous. 

You may well ask, he thought, feeling tired. “Because our friend in Switzerland called to speak to my brother,” he said tiredly, closing his eyes. “He told Jaime you refused to take his messages. And Jaime threatened to set Gregor on you.”

“He did, did he?” asked Clegane ruminatively. “And you think I can’t handle Gregor, my lord?” he asked reproachfully.

“Oh, I’m sure you can take him on, Clegane—I just don’t want you killing him and getting sent to jail or worse for murder,” snapped Tyrion, irritably. “Besides, haven’t you had enough of this place—cleaning up dead leaves, planting rosebushes, weeding and deworming plants? Wouldn’t you rather be in London, chasing hoodlums, than live here, dying of boredom?”

“Speak for yourself, sir,” said Clegane, with another twitch of his lip. “Talking of chasing hoodlums and catching criminals, guess who I ran into in Lannisport the other day.”

“How can I?” demanded Tyrion.

“Remember that pretty housemaid who used to work here before the war...Tysha, her name was, wasn’t it? She was in Lannisport, with her husband—he’s got his own ship now, she says; she’s been travelling with him.”

“Good for her,” Tyrion growled—her betrayal still stung him. He had not lived like a monk since then, but nor had he formed a relationship built on mutual trust and love with another woman. Most of his subsequent encounters with women were businesslike in the extreme—he had a need, which he assuaged, quickly, for a fee agreed on in advance. 

“She was asking about the family—about you in particular, my lord,” continued Clegane, looking him straight in the eye. “Her husband’s ship is berthed at Lannisport for some time—it’s called the Lady Marya. Maybe you should go see her? She was a good friend to you when you were a lad, sir.”

Saying this, Clegane got up to leave. Tyrion sat there, staring after him; then he got up and followed Clegane out of the conservatory. “Don’t forget to take the note from me before you go, Clegane,” he called out, to which Sandor Clegane replied, “I won’t, my lord.”

Tyrion walked into his office, wrapped and labelled the tapes, addressing the package to Jacklyn Bywaters. Then he sat down and wrote a note to the police commissioner, recommending Sandor Clegane for a job in the Metropolitan Police. He handed the note and the packet to Clegane, who walked in just then, carrying the sack of bulbs. Clegane tucked the package into the sack and put the note into the pocket of his leather jacket. He would travel to London on his black motorbike.

“Give me a call—leave a message with Pod when your errands are done,” Tyrion said to him.

Clegane merely nodded, grunted and left.

Tyrion decided to go to Lannisport and check out the Lady Marya. He had to talk to Tysha—he needed to know why she had left him. He got Bronn to drive him to Lannisport—there was little to be done at the Rock. Bronn parked the car on the high street and Tyrion strolled down to the docks. A few questions directed at a dockworker led him to the ship tied to its moorings. He would have stood there on the quayside gaping at the ship—the dockworker said she plied between the Continent and English ports, carrying trade goods—if he had not been spotted and hailed aboard by a brunette, who had recognized him. It was Tysha.

He clambered up the ladder and into the ship. He was guided to the deck, where Tysha sat gazing into the bay. She greeted him warmly—he was surprised at that. But then, he reminded himself, she was the one who had left him. 

“How have you been, Tyrion?” she asked him. 

“I’m fine,” he lied. He felt angry and tongue-tied in her presence.

“It’s been such a long time since we met.” She spoke quietly. “I came during the war—after Allard and I married. I came to see my parents—I did not go up to the Rock. I heard you were away in London—I was certain you would do well in the war.”

He did not respond—he did not know what to say to her.

“Tyrion,” there was a pleading note in her voice. “Please look at me when I speak to you.” He looked at her—his expression was grim. She gulped as she continued, “I know you must hate me for what I did—walking out on you like that. I had to do it Tyrion—I had no choice. Your father found out about us—he said nothing to you about it, I gather?”

He shook his head silently.

She laughed bitterly. “He had plenty to say to me—and all of it nasty. He could not see what I saw in you; he was certain I was after your money, which was why I’d let you make love to me in the first place; he made it clear he would never permit us to marry; he would not allow you to keep a mistress... all I could do was stand there and listen to him. One of the other servants must have seen us together and told him. “

“Why didn’t you...why didn’t you call or write to me and tell me what had happened?” he cried out, anguished. “Didn’t you think I’d drop everything and come for you, Tysha?”

“Tyrion,” there was a thread of steel in her voice. “Don’t you think I knew that—knew that you would walk out on the one thing that would enable you to seek your independence from your family—an education? And, believe me that was the one thing I didn’t want! What would have happened if you had come back and we had run off together? We could not have lived with my parents—you would have hated living on the farm. You might not have been able to get work. I felt it was best if I were to walk out—I didn’t want to leave a letter; I hoped you’d forget me and find someone who loved you as much as I did, someone whom your family would accept for your sake. I was lucky enough to meet Allard in Lannisport—he’d broken off with his girl on the Continent. The two of us got married—we’ve made a life for ourselves. I hoped you had done the same—until I met Sandor.”

They were both silent for a while until he asked her, “And what in the Lord’s name did Sandor tell you?”  
“He told me all that you had done during the war—and how little it meant to your father. He told me both of you were stuck in Casterly Rock—you were managing the estate and he was keeping the grounds neat and tidy. This despite the fact that both of you were capable of so much more. He said it seemed your father wanted your brother to take a greater interest in the estate and the business—and that Jaime just refuses to do so. Is that true?”

He sighed. “Jaime’s an RAF pilot to the backbone—to expect him to give that up for life as a landowner or a businessman is expecting too much of him. My father has always had problems grasping this simple fact. He took charge of the family business—the bank, the newspapers, the estate—as soon as he left university. Jaime, on the other hand, left the University for the air force—I think father fails to realise that Jaime does not think the way he does.”

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life here, Tyrion—at your father’s beck and call? I know you hope he will give you a suitable job managing the business, but knowing the way he spoke of you to me, I don’t think so. I think you should leave Casterly as soon as possible; you have an education—you’ve served your country well during the war; you should be able to get a job that suits your talents better than worrying about the estate.”

He laughed bitterly. “Where do you suggest I go looking about for work, Tysha? If my father himself won’t hire me...”

“Don’t feel so sorry for yourself, Tyrion—you have an excellent education and an excellent brain; thank your father for the first and the good Lord for the second. Now, why don’t you try applying to these new universities that are being set up? I know there are many universities on the lookout for lecturers and professors—I always thought you’d make a great teacher someday.”

He gave her an ironic look. “Thank you, my dear girl—I’m sure I’d be able to get some teaching done, when the students stopped laughing at me.”

“Why? Were you laughed at when you were at university?” she demanded.

“No, I wasn’t—but that does not mean I won’t be laughed at if I become a teacher.”

“I think,” she said stubbornly, “you should give it a try. We’ve just come back, Allard and I, from a trip north, from Eastwatch on the Sea. They’re building a new university at Wintertown—and they’re looking for professors. I don’t know if you will be able to endure the climate there...”

He could not help but recall the conversation in the drawing room a few weeks ago—Sansa Stark talking of the books and manuscripts in Winterfell’s incomparable library being given to the new university—and then he recalled how he had enjoyed his time there just before the war really began in 1940. One of the boys—Bran, he thought it was—had broken his arm when he fell off a tree he was climbing. Lady Catelyn had been frantic with anxiety and Lord Stark had been equally anxious to be on his way to London. He’d liked Winterfell and Wintertown—the weather had not bothered him; it had been comfortable enough.

He got up. “Tysha,” he said firmly, “I’m glad—truly glad—that you’re happy in your marriage. And I’m grateful that you thought kindly enough of me to want to see me after all these years. I wish you all the best in life, my dear girl—and I will take your advice.” Pod and Bronn, he thought, might enjoy Wintertown—the northerners were a hospitable lot.

He returned to the Rock with Bronn, to learn that Uncle Kevan had already left for London, after arranging for the children to start at Crakehall’s and the Crag the very next day. He hoped Sandor Clegane and his uncle would not run into each other on the road. Pod told him, in a worried tone, that Lord Tywin had been asking for him. Tyrion went at once to see his father.

His father demanded without preamble, “Why did you send Clegane to London? Who’ll take care of his jobs while he’s away?”

“I sent Clegane to London to hand over some tulip bulbs to the gardener at the Red House. He’ll be able to advise the gardener how the soil should be treated before the bulbs are planted. He should be back this evening—if he isn’t, I’m sure Kettleblack can do his job.”

Tywin merely sniffed in disapproval.

“Have you any idea how Cersei and Joffrey have reacted to the dismissal of the staff they brought to the Rock? They see it as a slight to them that the men were asked to leave. I will not deny I was glad to see the back of them—but if we ask Kettleblack to do Clegane’s job, even for a day, I’m certain the two of them will make a fuss.”

Tyrion wondered if he should ask his father about Tysha, then decided not to—he had never confided in him, even as a child. He had faint recollections of his mother—of her kisses, her scent, and the feel of her arms around him as she sang him a lullaby and rocked him to sleep. He could not recall ever being affectionate with his father, not even after his mother’s death. That had been a tragedy for him—he was only a little fellow of three or four when she died in the influenza epidemic. He had been devastated—Cersei had ignored him, but Jaime had been there to care for him. Just as he was about to leave, his father asked:

“Why did you go to Lannisport, today of all days?”

Tyrion had already decided not to talk of Tysha with him. “Oh, I felt the need for a breath of town air,” he said jokingly. His father merely pursed his lips and looked at him.

“Is that the only reason why you went to town?” he asked, in a cold, still voice. 

Tyrion said nothing, merely looking straight into his father’s eyes. Tywin continued to look at him coldly as he spoke:

“I have eyes and ears in Lannisport, Tyrion—I know that a certain ship bearing a certain person, who was foolish enough to attempt to get close to you, has berthed in Lannisport. Has this woman tried to contact you at all?”

“What if she had, sir?” he asked, somewhat recklessly.

Tywin said coldly, “She would have broken her agreement with me—I made her promise not to contact you, then or later.”

“I would advise you to leave her alone, father—she did not attempt to contact me; I learnt of her arrival from another source. I too have eyes and ears in Lannisport.”

“So you did meet her? And I’m sure she must have tried to rekindle your friendship? People of her class...”

“She did nothing of the sort—we spoke of old times; she told me of her marriage and congratulated me on my work during the war.”

Tywin sniffed disapprovingly. “Perhaps she was unaware of your mode of life during those years. However, I suppose I should cut you some slack—although Cersei was most shocked at your behaviour. Of course, having to deal with Robert’s excesses would have soured the gentlest of women...”

And Cersei could certainly not be called gentle, Tyrion thought sardonically. 

“She wanted me to recall you to Casterly Rock immediately. I refused, because I was told the work you did was critical to our winning the war. She made me promise not to let you live in London ever again—she was certain her friends knew of your exploits and were laughing at her behind her back.”

Tyrion seethed with rage. So it was his sister who had prevented his reaping the fruits of his labour during the war. He was even more stubbornly resolved to do as Tysha had suggested—go to Wintertown and apply for a job at the university.

“Father, I’m certain her friends don’t know I exist—not unless Cersei spread tales of my exploits in London society. Did she?” he asked innocently.

His father merely glared at him.

“Tyrion,” he said finally, “I think you should understand a few things. It is unlikely that a woman will love you for yourself. Women are shallow creatures—they love good-looking men like Jaime, with whom they can dance the night away. If a woman professes love for you, it is likely she is marrying you for your money—our money—and our social position. The only sort of woman who will profess affection for you is a woman of the working classes who is ambitious and wants to raise her social status. You should beware of such creatures. Since you lack self-control, I think it necessary that you should remain at the Rock until you acquire it. You may go.”

Tyrion walked out, resolved not to let his rage show. How dare his father make these judgements about people, such as Tysha! He made arrangements to leave the Rock the very next day—confiding his plans to Pod and Bronn, who were both enthusiastic about leaving. They quietly packed all that they thought they would need and they agreed to leave the Rock soon after breakfast the next morning. Pod told him that Clegane had called and left a message for him while he was talking to Lord Tywin—he had reached London safely and had met the gardener and Jacklyn Bywaters. “He’ll be working at the Met now, he says; he was going to look for digs in London. He said we should call and leave a message for him at the Met switchboard till he gets a place of his own. He said he wanted to thank you for your help.”

I’m glad he got away, Tyrion thought—now I must think of getting away myself.

The next day, at breakfast, he dealt with Jaime’s reproaches. Apparently, Clegane had not yet returned to the Rock, and Jaime wanted to speak to him urgently. “I sent him to London to drop something off at the Red House—I told him to take some time off as well. He should be back in the next day or so,” Tyrion said, as he buttered a toast. 

Jaime gave him a dubious look. “I hope he does come back in the next day or so—I want him to do a few jobs for me.”

“I know Sandor—I’m sure he’ll get down to it when he returns from London.” For one mad moment, Tyrion wondered if he should give Jaime the Met’s switchboard number and tell him to contact Sandor there. He decided not to do so—it would mean giving too much information to his brother, who might just decide to fly the coop.

After breakfast, Tyrion strolled down to the garage, where Bronn and Podrick were waiting for him impatiently. They took his Aston Martin down to the railway station, where they purchased three tickets for Castle Black—they would, like Sansa Stark, get down at Wintertown. They were able to sell the Aston Martin while they waited for their train—Tyrion was determined to buy something more inconspicuous in colour when they reached their destination. They got in early the next morning, and checked into an inn where Tyrion had stayed during his visit to read manuscripts in the Winterfell library ten years ago. He’d seen advertisements from the University of Wintertown in the papers, requesting applications from suitable candidates for the posts of lecturers and professors a few weeks ago; he had even cut one out, planning to write an application. Luckily, the last date for receiving applications was still ten days away—he was able to quickly write and file his application. He decided he’d wait to meet the board of governors of the university—he spent some time showing Bronn and Pod the sights. In the meantime, he called the number Sandor had left and spoke to him, to let him know that he was no longer at Casterly Rock.

“That’s good,” Sandor replied gruffly. He continued, “I don’t know if this is known generally, but the Tullys have put in an application with the Home Office to have Jon Arryn’s body dug up and examined for poison. Of course, they claim to suspect your family, but... the tapes I gave the commissioner tell a very different story. He also says they’ll need your testimony—they can’t prosecute on the basis of the tapes alone.”

Tyrion sighed—he had suspected something of the sort would happen. “I can possibly testify to one call—the one Jaime received two days ago. I’ve had the line tapped since you told me a month ago about Jaime calling up Littlefinger on the Lannisport Hotel phone. I don’t know if anyone else at the Rock overheard a phone call—I think the commissioner will have to question each person living there, above and below stairs, and see what they say. Maybe he could begin with the men who were asked to leave this Monday—suggest that to him and see what he says.”

“All right—can’t do any harm,” Sandor said, and rang off.  
After this, Tyrion decided that he, Bronn and Pod could do with a walk around the town.

That day, Sansa was in Wintertown, shopping with her mother. They had received news from Robb, as Daven Lannister had warned her—he was planning to bring home the young lady he’d met in Germany, Jeyne Westerling, who had fixed up his shoulder so expertly. The mother and daughter were in town to see what they could find to make into finery—the way Robb had spoken of Jeyne indicated that he felt deeply for her and they might as well prepare for the first wedding in the family. Jon, who worked with Uncle Benjen in MI6 (under Jeor Mormont), would also be there, as would Uncle Benjen himself. Uncle Brynden, who was managing the Berlin station of the nation’s intelligence network, had already met and approved of the young lady—he had written to Catelyn to say so and would be there when Robb came on leave. The letter Sansa sent her mother from Lannisport had arrived just a few hours before her mother received the telegram announcing Sansa’s return home. Lady Catelyn and Lord Edmure had then prepared a petition to the Home Office, for the exhumation and examination of Jon Arryn’s body. They were both shocked at what Lysa had done and they wanted her, as well as Petyr Baelish and Jaime Lannister, to get what was coming to them. They had also heard from the Met and the public prosecutor that Sansa would have to testify in person to the phone call she overheard at the Rock.

Sansa found that her mother treated her more as an equal after her sojourn amongst the Lannisters. She had tried to think and act like an adult after her father died; it had been the greatest shock of her young life to find him gone so suddenly. But mother had tended to discuss matters of importance with Brienne or Robb—she seldom took Jon, Sansa or the younger children into her confidence. Sansa had been able to find work at Miss Mordane’s—she had been planning to work there in any case, before she went to work at Casterly Rock.

They had just finished their shopping when they saw Lord Tyrion and his companions cross the street and come towards them. Sansa pointed them out to Lady Catelyn, who immediately walked up to Tyrion and thanked him for sending her daughter home to safety. Tyrion accepted her gratitude with becoming modesty and invited them to join him for tea. The ladies accepted his invitation.

As they sat talking over tea, Tyrion told them, “I’ve been thinking of settling here, Lady Stark, in Wintertown—I understand the new university is in need of teachers and I’ve sent them an application. I hope you have no objections.”

“None at all, Lord Tyrion—why should I object?” asked Catelyn with a polite smile. “You visited Winterfell before the war began,“ she continued. “You were working towards a doctorate...”

“Yes, my lady, I was successful in obtaining it. “

“That is excellent—I’ve heard many good things about you,” she said, lowering her voice a little.

“Oh?” He wondered who had spoken so well of him—he knew very few who would say a good word on his behalf.

“My grand-uncle Brynden Tully and my brother-in-law Benjen Stark—you worked with them during the war, I believe.”

“Yes, I did.” To his great regret, he had been unable to go out into the field. “You’re too conspicuous, Lannister,” as Jeor Mormont told him, rather regretfully. But he had put his analytical abilities to good use in the intelligence services—his knowledge of languages and history paid off well. 

Jeyne Poole, Sansa’s closest friend from her childhood, was the next to bring news of Tyrion and his household.

“Do you know?” she burst in on Sansa and Lady Catelyn, just as they were arranging the house to welcome Robb and Miss Westerling, “There is a Lord Tyrion Lannister—such a strange-looking man—who’s been hired to teach in the university? He’s rented a cottage in Wintertown—he has a chauffeur and a valet living with him. And they bought an Aston Martin—a crimson-coloured car! Just imagine...” 

Sansa responded quite calmly. “I know Lord Tyrion, Jeyne—I went to Casterly Rock, remember, to work as a governess for his family? I told him about the university at Wintertown—and he arrived here only a few days after I returned home. He must have been bored to tears after the war—although he was managing the family estate...”

Jeyne sniffed, “I’ve heard quite a lot about him from friends in London,” she meant Theon’s sister Asha, who ran a very fashionable nightclub there, “and none of it sounds good or respectable. Don’t go making a friend of him, Sansa,” she said, as she took her leave of the Starks. “He has a terrible reputation...”

“Oh, as if Theon’s a saint!” Sansa exclaimed, exasperated. Lady Catelyn was the only one who heard her, for Jeyne had already left.

However, far from scandalizing his neighbours with outrageous behaviour, Lord Tyrion astounded them by behaving like a staid and respectable householder. He lived quietly with Pod and Bronn—they had a woman coming in to cook and clean for them. In the meanwhile, Sansa had begun working at Miss Mordane’s school, where she and Jeyne had studied when they were young girls; she frequently saw Tyrion, Bronn and Pod in Wintertown and greeted them politely when she met them.

The next time they met was in London, after they had testified at the trial of Petyr Baelish, Lysa Tully and the three Lannisters—Cersei, Jaime and Lancel—for the murders of Jon Arryn, Ned Stark, Robert Baratheon and Wyl the chauffeur, and the attempts to conceal the same. Both Sansa and Tyrion had overheard conversations over the phone line at Casterly Rock—and both conversations revealed a lot about how the plot was carried out. 

Although Sansa was supported by her family throughout the ordeal, Tyrion got the cold shoulder from his father and Uncle Kevan. They had an extremely unpleasant conversation with him outside the Old Bailey, where the trial was held. Tyrion was walking out onto the street, when he was accosted by his uncle.

“Your father wishes to speak to you,” Kevan Lannister said coldly, indicating a crimson Rolls, parked on one side of the street; Tywin sat at the back.

Tyrion walked up to the car and slid in next to his father, without saying a word.

His father gave him a cold look, as though he would rather have slit Tyrion’s throat with a knife than speak to him face to face. What he said proved to be extremely unpleasant.

“I never thought,” he said coldly, “that my children would indulge in a relationship such as the one described in court today; I had never believed that my offspring would stoop to murder to conceal their sins. But what I cannot forgive,” and his eyes pierced Tyrion like daggers of ice, “is that you, a Lannister, would betray your own so willingly.”

“Father, you are aware they committed a crime—Jaime killed Ned Stark in the East End. Petyr Baelish knew of this or was involved in planning it. He had killed Jon Arryn for his own reasons—Jaime was aware of this. And Petyr was trying to convince Jaime to harm Sansa Stark, Ned’s daughter, in the mistaken belief that she knew of her father’s murder...”

“It is evident,” his father cut in coldly, “that you are involved with the Starks—you would not have got a job in the university otherwise.”

Tyrion snorted in derision. “Of course, the fact that I worked bloody hard to get a doctorate means little to you, doesn’t it, father? Lady Catelyn and the Starks have little to do with the university; I was hired because I had the best qualifications, not because I was friendly with the Starks.”

“Be that as it may,” his father responded coldly, “I cannot stand by you in this matter—your action in tapping a private phone line and sharing the information with the police has put you beyond the pale, in my opinion. I cannot abandon my grandchildren—they need me. You will not receive anything from the estate—I am cutting you off without a penny. In case you had thought to profit by the deaths of your brother and sister for murder, you will be unable to do so.”

“Very well, father.” Tyrion responded evenly.

In the course of the trial, it soon emerged that Lancel had been the one to conceal Robert’s last letter to Catelyn Stark in Sansa’s bedroom. He had at first been furious with Robert for his ill-treatment of Cersei and had willingly encouraged him to drink himself senseless on several occasions, including the night of his death. Although Robert had proved to have a strong head for liquor, he had been befuddled enough to open the doors of his coupe and try to walk out of a moving train. Lancel had done what he did because he was infatuated with Cersei—but he soon realised that she had no feelings for him. It was this that led to his remorse and his decision to give the letter to Sansa.

Lysa Arryn Baelish confessed as soon as she was arrested—she claimed that she had killed her husband because he refused to recognize the fact that his son, Robin, was suffering from tuberculosis. As soon as her husband’s funeral was over, Lysa took her son to Switzerland, to a clinic that specialized in treating cases like his. She remained with him throughout the war—she was able to arrange for the services of a tutor, as he gradually recovered his health and spirits. When she married Petyr Baelish at the end of the war, her son was well and truly over his ill-health. She had frequently complained, in the course of their marriage, that she and her son came a poor second, in her husband’s list of priorities, after Robert Baratheon and his own involvement in political and public affairs. So while his mother went off to prison, Robin was taken in by his uncle Edmure and his aunt Roslin, who brought him up.

The other highlight of the trial was Jaime Lannister’s guilty reaction when Tyrion revealed how he’d planned to get Gregor Clegane to convince his younger brother to do his bidding. When the barrister defending Jaime asked, “Why should Squadron-Leader Lannister not have made this statement?” Tyrion shot back with, “Because Gregor had a reputation as a killer, both within and outside the boxing ring.” He then told a horrified court how Gregor had held his six-year-old brother’s face to the fire, because the younger boy had dared to play with a toy that belonged to Gregor. He also spoke of the suspicion that Gregor might have killed his father.

Luckily for Tyrion, Gregor “The Mountain” Clegane had just died in a boxing match against Oberyn “The Viper” Santander-Martell. It was supposed to be a friendly match between two regiments, until both men ended up killing each other. Had Gregor returned alive after a victory over Oberyn Martell, he would most likely have killed the youngest of Lord Tywin’s brood, rather than going after his younger brother. That, in any case, was what Sandor Clegane chose to believe, as he told Sansa. 

Sandor did well at the Met—he soon realised that not all officers appreciated men like Gregor. There were those who respected his doggedness in getting at the truth, his honesty and his sense of justice. These were the men who encouraged him in his career, with praise and promotions.

Joy Hill kept Sansa and Tyrion abreast of all that happened in the Lannister family, after Jaime, Cersei and Lancel were convicted and sentenced—she was able to get help from the ladies at the Crag to have her letters posted. Tywin refused to name him his heir in his will, despite Aunt Genna’s insistence that he do so. After his death, Tyrion’s cousins contested the will on his behalf, to ensure that he got his rightful share as heir to Casterly Rock.

“After all,” as Daven told Sansa when she and Tyrion met him at his wedding, “it took a great deal of courage to stand up and do what he did—admit that his brother had done something so terrible. Jaime was the only one in the family, other than Aunt Genna, Uncle Tyrek and Uncle Gerion, to really stand up for him. And he was the only one of us who stayed on at the Rock and took care of things after the war—it’s only fair he should get it.”

It was some months after the trial and sentencing of the five culprits that both Sansa and Tyrion received anonymous threatening notes. These notes consisted of words, cut from newspaper headlines, pasted onto cheap notepaper. All the police could say was that the notes were posted from somewhere in the West Country, close to Lannisport. They were soon able to zero in on the main culprit—Joffrey, who had lost his claim to Dragonstone when the truth of his birth was revealed in the course of the trial. The two younger children, Myrcella and Tommen, were shocked at the revelations, but had soon recovered; Joy Hill told Sansa that the two youngest understood that their mother and uncle had committed crimes, which was why they’d been sent to jail. 

Unfortunately, Joffrey had few friends—his closest relationship had been with his mother, who had assured him that he was exactly like his uncle Jaime. She had flattered him into an excellent opinion of himself, and he had come to believe that the world existed to do his bidding. So the trial of his mother and uncle for four murders, and the revelation of their relationship, came as a shock to him, as did the realisation that two people whom he’d thought of as nothing had come forward to testify against his uncle. 

Luckily for Joffrey, he was caught before he could do any real harm—but both Sansa and Tyrion spent many sleepless nights wondering who the writer could be and what he could do to hurt them or those close to them. Joffrey ended up in a mental sanatorium, where the doctors tried to undo the harm done during the first twenty-two years of his life.

Sansa continued to work at Miss Mordane’s, and much to the shock of respectable members of her acquaintance, she kept up her friendship with Professor Lannister, of whose dreadful reputation many spoke in whispers. She received many proposals for her hand in marriage; she even liked some of the men who proposed, such as Harrold Harrdyng of the Vale and Willas Tyrell of Highgarden. She could not forget the risks Tyrion had taken to get them all—herself, Sandor, his servants and himself—away from his family and the harm they could do them all. 

It was when she thought of all this that Sansa felt more drawn to Tyrion than to her other suitors—they had shared a difficult time together and she had learnt to trust him. He had acted quickly and decisively to get them all out of a dangerous situation and into positions where they had some power to influence the outcome of events, instead of being at the mercy of people like Cersei, Joffrey and his father. Perhaps it was that which kept her at his side long after her suitors had left in search of greener pastures.


End file.
